


wreck my plans (that's my man)

by alasse



Category: Little Women (2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28142559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasse/pseuds/alasse
Summary: Five times Amy fell in love with Laurie and tried to talk herself out of it until she didn’t have to, and one time Laurie fell in love with Amy.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Amy March
Comments: 22
Kudos: 126
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	wreck my plans (that's my man)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aceface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceface/gifts).



> Dear **aceface** , I hope you have a wonderful, wonderful Yule, and I really hope that you enjoy this little story where I tried to explore many ways Amy fell in love with Laurie, and the way Laurie fell right back, in keeping with your request. 
> 
> Beta'ed by M, who was kind enough to allow me her sharpest of eyes and insights even amidst a very crazy end of year - any remaining mistakes are my own.

_Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind_  
_Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneakin' in_  
_As if you were a mythical thing_  
_Like you were a trophy or a champion ring_  
_But there was one prize I'd cheat to win_

_The more that you say, the less I know_  
_Wherever you stray, I follow_  
_I'm begging for you to take my hand_  
_Wreck my plans, that's my man_

* * *

Amy was rummaging silently in the pantry, trying to to track down a little piece of bread or some sweet biscuit, or _anything_ to stamp down the horrid pangs of hunger she was feeling, but was having very ill luck. Their pantry had been somewhat bare of late, since the war had started, although Amy knew it was unkind to think so, because there were so many who had it so much worse. She tried hard to have good thoughts about it, she really did, but, _oh_ , what she wouldn’t do to have a sugar biscuit...

She heard a clatter coming from the kitchen, and crouched down. Hannah and Marmee had come in too early from the market! As she was trying to figure out a plan of escape, however, she heard something which intrigued her.

“Did you hear, Mrs. March? Old Mr. Laurence is taking in his grandson, now that his poor son has died.”

“Really? Oh, that makes me glad. That poor old man, he must be so lonely… I’m sure his grandson will be a great consolation to him.”

“Well, I’m not too sure about that. He _is_ half-Italian; he might just turn out just as terrible and his mother…”

“Hannah! That’s very unkind. I’m sure he’s a fine boy.”

“Hrmph.”

Before the conversation could continue, however, Amy heard Jo calling for Marmee from somewhere else in the house and Hannah made her way out to the garden to gather herbs for dinner. Her hunger pangs and her very lucky escape from detection were utterly forgotten, however, because who could think of sugar biscuits when there were mysterious half-Italian boys moving in next door? Oh, she just knew that the young Laurence boy was bound to be wonderful, probably gallant and kind and very fine-looking, and he would probably appreciate her own efforts to be genteel and kind and maybe not mind her funny-looking nose too much.

After that afternoon, Amy kept a near-constant look-out on the house next door, aching to get the very first glimpse of the heralded arrival, always taking whatever opportunity she could - laundry duty, garden pruning, gathering the mail - to be outside and catch any possible carriages arriving. 

“Why are you so keen to be outside all the time now, Amy? Don’t you like to play dolls anymore?” asked Beth, plaintively, and it broke Amy’s heart to make her sad, it truly did, so she forced herself to stay inside more often and do right by her sister, although she made sure to sit with a view of the window whenever they played.

“Why are you always looking out the window?” asked Jo, far more irritably. “I won’t have busy-bodies for sisters.” 

Which was a true lie coming from Josephine March, as everyone knew she was the busy-bodiest of them all! Still, her efforts and her clever Jo-dodging were finally rewarded on a bright Tuesday afternoon when she was out by the front garden trimming the bluebells and marigolds, and a shiny black carriage clattered noisily to the Laurence house. It had to be the boy!

Riveted, Amy stood up on her tippy-toes and held her breath until she saw him: pale, slim, a wavy mess of chestnut hair, something sad but interesting in his profile, in the way he carried himself. Oh, he looked like everything Amy had expected, and she couldn’t wait to know him, and to find out if he’d like her, and like her paintings, and be nice about her nose. 

No more than a few weeks later, after burnt hair and a ball that she was ever so jealous she couldn’t go to, she finally got the chance to properly meet him. Leave it to Jo, of course, to make them all meet the Laurence boy almost in the middle of the night and in their nightgowns! But the way he carried Meg inside and gently put her down, the way his hair caught the light -- he truly was as gallant as Amy had hoped.

“I’m Amy,” she announced brightly, and felt a happy little zing when he smiled and nodded. 

She had to run off, then, to help tend to Meg’s foot, but she was sure she could get him to talk to her about Italy and the paintings he’d seen, or maybe about his favorite biscuits. As she was thinking of what to ask first, however, she noticed the way he was looking at Jo like he couldn’t quite believe she was real, the way Jo laughed and called him “Teddy”, and she swallowed down her questions. Amy was just a little girl, as Jo often reminded her, and her questions were probably silly, anyway. 

Still, as the days went by and Meg and Jo talked about how the Laurence boy - Laurie - had rescued them at the ball and Jo declared him a “very good egg, indeed”, Amy couldn’t help but think it was unfair, because, well. She’d seen him first.

* * *

After Amy got caught with the drawing, and Mr. Davies fumed and yelled and hit her across the palm of her hand with the switch, her first instinct was to go to Marmee. Marmee was the best and kindest nurse, and of course she’d make everything better, but, oh, she’d ask why Mr. Davies had hit Amy in the first place, and she’d have to confess about the drawings, and she was sure Marmee would be ever so cross. She knew - she’d known as she was doing them - that the drawings were unkind, and unworthy of her talents, and that Marmee would look ever so disappointed and Jo would look down her nose at drawing and declare that, as she’d always said, it was nothing but a waste of time. 

So, when she caught sight of the Laurence house as she wandered up to the path leading to Orchard House, sniffing and clutching her aching hand, she decided to try her luck. Maybe they could help cure her hand and in the meantime, she could come up with some way to explain the whole thing to Marmee. 

By the time she was close to the large, imposing manor, however, she couldn’t find the nerve to go inside, but she felt even more scared of trying to go back home. Oh, she’d been so silly, agreeing to draw Mr. Davies! All because she wanted more limes and she couldn’t take any more of Meg’s money, as far behind on debts as she already was. 

“I can never go home again….” Amy mumbled, overwhelmed at the thought of the combined scolding she’d get from Marmee, Jo, and even Meg, and she shuffled around in the cold snow clutching her hand tight.

“Hello there! Are you hurt?”

Amy glanced up to see Laurie and the stern young tutor that had shown up some weeks ago staring at her from the window, both of them hanging out slightly. She sniffed and attempted to re-introduce herself properly, because even if Marmee never let her come home again, she wasn’t going to do away with manners. 

“I’m Amy,” she said.

“Hello, Amy; I’m Laurie,” Laurie replied, smiling slightly, and oh, he truly was very nice.

“I know, you brought my sister back after the dance - I would’ve never sprained my ankle; I have lovely small feet, the best in the family,” Amy replied, sniffing again. She hadn’t had a chance to tell Laurie that night about her feet, and she really wanted to. However, as she remembered how Laurie had carried Meg in and Marmee had bustled around and helped her, the tragedy of her own situation struck her again. “But I can never go home again because I’m in such trouble! Look! Mr. Davies hit me!” she exclaimed, showing her bleeding hand at Laurie and his tutor.

She noted that Laurie was no longer smiling at all and hoped _he_ wasn’t already cross with her, but after a second of Laurie discussing something quietly with his tutor, they both leaned out the window again.

“Come inside, Amy, please! I’ll meet you by the entrance, alright?” Laurie called out.

“Al - alright,” Amy called back. “Are you sure I can? You won’t get me in trouble with Marmee?”

“I promise!” Laurie replied, placing a hand over his heart, and, well. Amy had to believe him then.

She made her way to the entrance of the grand house, shaking out the snow from her boots and trying her best to straighten the wrinkles in her dress one-handed. She contemplated taking some snow and trying to cool her cheeks down -- she was probably looking very splotchy and ridiculous and she hated how much crying brought out the shape of her odd little nose -- but before she could do it, the front door opened, and she was greeted by a concerned-looking Laurie.

“Amy, come in, come in, please,” he said, waving her inside. “John - Mr. Brooke - has gone to the housekeeper to get some warm water and cloth to wrap your hand with. We can wait here, if you like, or, um. Is there some part of the house you’d like to see, perhaps?”

Amy bit her lip. “D’you - d’you have paintings?”

Laurie cocked his head. “Paintings?” he echoed. “Yes, I suppose we have a few in the library, if you’d like to see them?”

Oh, she knew it! She’d always longed to see the art in the grand old house, and she almost clapped with excitement until the throbbing of her hand held her back. “Yes, please! I do love paintings ever so much, and Orchard house is lovely, but I know the few ones that we have by heart already!”

Laurie smiled. “Then we shall see all the paintings you like. Come on, it’s this way.”

Amy couldn’t help it - as she walked into the beautiful library, her mouth dropped open with awe, Jo’s frequent teasing about looking like she was ready to catch flies powerless before the sight that greeted her. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “Is this where you study every day?” she asked Laurie.

“Yes, indeed, this is the chamber of my daily torture,” Laurie replied with a silly shrug.

“Oh, no - you’re so lucky, to be able to look at these paintings all the time,” Amy said.

“Well - I do hope he spends more time learning than looking at paintings,” a voice interrupted, and Amy turned to see the stern tutor - Mr. Brooke, Laurie had said - leading the housekeeper inside, and carrying a bundle of white cloth and some ointment, while the housekeeper carried a porcelain basin of steaming water.

Amy caught Laurie rolling his eyes and she forced herself not to laugh - Marmee would be very cross if she heard she’d made fun of the Laurences’ tutor!

“Now, uh - Maisie, d’you think you could help us tend to Miss March’s hand?” Mr. Brooke asked the housekeeper. 

“No need, Maisie, John - I’ll do it, I’ve taken care of many of my own scrapes with great success before,” Laurie interrupted, standing up from the settee he’d settled into and taking the pail of water. “Unless… Amy, do you trust a young ruffian like myself to see to your battle wound?” he asked, giving her a wink. 

Amy could feel her cheeks warm. “Yes, yes, of course,” she replied. 

“Wonderful! Alright - madam, sit over here, if you will,” Laurie said, gesturing to a chair next to a little table where he set down the water. “John - the cloth and ointment, please.”

Amy sat down, and she noticed that her dress was stained with a few drops of blood, which would surely upset Hannah. She tried to discreetly arrange her dress with her hale hand so that one of the folds would cover the stain.

“Now, Amy - show me your hand?” Laurie asked, extending his own. When Amy put her hand in his, he gently moved it one way and the other, his fingers delicate. “This is a rough wound, Miss March. Do you feel up to telling us what happened?” 

Amy swallowed, but nodded after a moment. “Well, you see -- the girls at the school, they asked me to draw our teacher, Mr. Davies. And I wouldn’t have agreed, I swear I wouldn’t have, except that I was under such a debt with the limes…”

“The - the limes?” Laurie asked, glancing up for a moment with eyebrows raised.

“Well, yes. Everyone at school trades them, you see? And the more limes you have, the better,” Amy explained.

“Of course, yes,” Laurie said, smiling a small sideways smile, and glancing down again, taking the white cloth and dipping it in the water before carefully cleaning Amy’s palm. “So, you had no choice but to draw Mr. Davies, I understand now. Did he catch on, then?”

“Yes,” Amy said, shrugging unhappily. “He saw the drawing, and he called me such awful names - disrespectful chit, and things of the sort, and then he took out the switch and hit me twice over my palm. I know it was very wicked to draw him, but it does hurt very much, and it’s my drawing hand!”

Laurie paused in his ministrations, then, and met Amy’s eyes, no mirth in his gaze. “Amy - you may have been a little mischievous drawing him, but it was wicked of _him_ to strike you so. Alright?”

Amy nodded, biting her lip. Laurie finished cleaning her hand and placed some ointment on it - it stung for a few moments - and then he carefully wrapped it with another piece of white cloth, tucking the ends delicately. 

“There,” he declared, giving one last pat to Amy’s hand. “All done. Now, how would you feel if you and I got a better look at the paintings - Grandfather has some wonderful books I can show you, too - and Mr. Brooke here can go over to Orchard house and let your mother know where you are?” 

“You don’t think they’ll be very cross?” Amy asked, tugging at one of her braids.

“Well, they might not be too happy about the drawings, Amy, I won’t lie. But I’m certain they’ll also feel that the switch was not justified, and I wager Marmee will take even better care of your hand than I was able to,” Laurie said. He then gave a theatrical sort of bow and invited Amy out of her chair.

Amy giggled and let herself be tugged to stand, and followed Laurie through a colorful tour of the various paintings nestled around the room, barely noticing when Mr. Brooke left. Her mood was so different from what it had been when she entered the house, she could hardly believe it! When he pulled out a book of classic landscapes so she could look at them, she couldn’t help herself; she started making up stories as she always did with her sisters, and Laurie didn’t make fun of her or tease her - he just smiled up at her from his chair and egged her on. He truly was so kind, she could hardly stand it.

“Tell the servants I want this painting purchased for me, immediately!” she exclaimed gleefully, pointing at a particularly beautiful natural landscape she would love to try and copy for herself.

Before Laurie could reply, however, Marmee and the rest of Amy’s sisters arrived, bustling in noisily, and it was time to throw herself at Marmee’s mercy and hope for the best. As she told her tale, however, Amy noticed that she’d lost Laurie’s attention entirely - he’d leapt out of his chair when he’d seen Jo, and they were chatting by one of the paintings, soon joined by old Mr. Laurence, and not paying Amy and her poor hand any mind.

Amy still tried to make the best of it, telling Laurie she wanted to come back and look at the paintings later before Marmee herded them all out, and she so hoped that an invitation would come for her, that Laurie would remember her request… As time went on, however, all that arrived were invitations for Jo, and all she heard were stories of how Jo and her “Teddy” went here and there and didn’t invite Amy anywhere, and the strange, wonderful charm of the time she’d spent with Laurie tending her hand began to sour. 

She knew she was young, and she knew that Jo was clever and everyone loved her, but hadn’t she also been fun? She gave it one more try, asking to go along with Meg and Jo to the theatre - since she wasn’t trading more limes she had a few coins saved up! - and felt almost incandescent with rage when Jo dismissed her.

Later that night, as she tore page after page from Jo’s silly book and fed them to the fire, she vowed to herself that she was done with the lot of them: with Jo, with Meg, and with Laurie for good measure, who had only been kind and good to her as long as Jo hadn’t been around. 

She so hated feeling small and dismissed.

* * *

“She’ll need to go away.”

It felt like a dreadful order of banishment, like something Jo conjured up for one of her plays when the villains were caught at last and their comeuppance was at hand. And yet, Amy knew that she couldn’t complain any more than she had, because poor Beth was so ill and Jo and Meg so frazzled, and Hannah looked ready to cry, and Marmee was away… She had to be brave and do her part, even if it meant going to that lonely, big house and living with mean Aunt March.

As she was packing her dresses and nightgown, Amy caught sight of one Beth’s dolls she’d borrowed on her bed, the doll Beth loved telling secrets to - _“I tell her how much I love you all, so that when you borrow it, Amy, she loves you too”_ \- and she burst into tears, she couldn’t help it.

“Amy, are you ready? I’m taking you in the carriage to-” Laurie’s voice preceded his entry into the room, and he stopped abruptly when he saw her crying. He approached carefully, and sat down next to her, his woodsy scent enveloping her. “Oh, Miss March. Why are you crying?” 

Amy tried to stop, she did - she hated that the only time she ever seemed to see Laurie by herself she was either crying or bleeding or both - but she just couldn’t. She looked at the little doll and dared to say what she was fearing. “I - I - what if Beth dies? What if - what if something goes wrong and I’m not even here to say goodbye?”

Laurie took one of her hands in his - the very same hand he’d once gently cleaned and wrapped - and leaned down slightly, peering into her eyes. “I won’t lie right now and tell you everything is sure to be well, because your sister has taught me upon pain of thrashing that making promises I can’t keep is wrong. But Amy - I _do_ promise you that the very moment I get word that Beth is doing worse, I shall go myself and fetch you from your aunt’s house and bring you here.”

“You - you promise? Truly?” 

Laurie gave her a small, soft smile. “I promise, Amy. And if the news is good, I also promise I shall fetch you straight away, to celebrate.”

“Alright,” Amy whispered softly, trying to meet his own smile with trembling lips before looking down. 

She was relieved, and she knew that Laurie would keep his promise, but she was still scared, and she felt childish about still feeling scared. She was growing up - they were all growing up - and Marmee had told them all they had to behave properly, and father called them little women, and now was the time for her to live up to that, especially with Beth being so ill, but… 

“Amy? What else is troubling you?” 

Laurie’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts, and when he nudged her with his shoulder she met his eyes again. They were a clear hazel-green that she’d always found beautiful and still had such trouble painting well, and they were looking at her seriously and warmly.

“It’s just. It’s so silly to say, but. I’m scared of being at Aunt March’s house all alone. She can be so mean, and I just think - I’m going to be so lonely,” she finally said quietly. “Please don’t tell Jo - she’s already doing so much, and she’ll feel I’m being silly and ungrateful and I truly don’t mean to be.” 

“Don’t worry, Amy, of course I won’t tell,” Laurie promised. He cocked his head and looked at her with a furrowed brow for a moment. “Listen - what do you think about me visiting you, at your aunt’s house? I can come see you every few days, so you don’t feel so lonely. I promise to try my best to tease you as well as Jo would, and console you like Meg. I won’t even try to be as good as Beth because I’m bound to fail, and I’m sure I’ll be a very poor substitute for the warmth here at Orchard House, but I can try.”

And Amy couldn’t help herself - she gave Laurie a sideways hug, overwhelmed by his kindness. “Oh, Laurie, thank you.”

Arriving at Aunt March’s house later that day felt much less terrible, knowing Laurie would visit her again and would bring her news of Beth as soon as he had any, and as the days continued and Amy accustomed herself to the house and to Aunt March’s specific habits, she began to understand that all those years of tales Jo had told about her horrid time with their aunt had probably been biased. 

Aunt March _was_ fussy, and she certainly liked things to be a very specific way, and she was often honest to a fault, but - well. She was kind and indulgent, in her own way, immediately buying canvas and paints for Amy, when she said she enjoyed art, and pushing her to practice properly and with discipline. Amy learned how hard Aunt March had fought for her independence and how keenly aware she was that she had it and had been able to keep it because she had inherited a fortune and a house. She was also wonderful at French - much better than Jo, who really didn’t like it at all - and, strangest and newest of all, for Amy, was that Aunt March took her seriously. 

It wasn’t that Marmee and her father and her sisters didn’t love her; she knew they did, but as the youngest, she sometimes felt like Meg’s perfection and Jo’s lively intelligence and Beth’s sheer goodness made Amy something like the pet, and all her likes and desires - being the greatest painter in the world, and having lovely gowns and lovely manners, and as many sugar biscuits as she ever could want - were treated as silly little whims. But Aunt March saw value in her wishes and treated them seriously and, what’s more, determined that if Amy cultivated her manners and her style and her poise, she could actually _help_ her family. That it wasn’t just Jo and her brain who had something to offer to make sure Marmee had a new shawl and the soup didn’t need thinning so often, but that Amy could hone herself and make a good marriage and ensure all of their comforts by doing so.

The other thing that Amy came to realize was that when Aunt March gave advice or spoke about the world - expressing worry that Jo was too strong-headed, or that Meg’s love for Mr. Brooke could lead to a complicated marriage - she didn’t just say it because she wanted to make Jo angry or Meg sad, but because she saw the world as it _was_ and felt it useful to confront it as such, rather than as one wished it to be. It was a different sort of kindness than what Amy was used to learning from Marmee and Meg and even Beth - it wasn’t about niceness, really, but rather about making a clear-eyed assessment of oneself and the world, and acting in consequence. 

This revelation led Amy to apply herself more seriously than she had before to her studies and to her art, and she listened carefully to all the instruction Aunt March gave her on etiquette, as well as to the bits and bobs of gossip she sometimes let slip. It also made Amy reflect on her own conduct with a more sincere shame - the ways she’d acted childishly and hurtfully when she hadn’t gotten her way, like burning Jo’s book. She understood, then, that allowing oneself to wallow so strongly in feeling could be dangerous and lead to rash actions she would likely regret, and promised herself to be far more mindful in her actions and controlled in her feelings. The days passed more quickly than she thought they would, and it was all a welcome distraction from her constant worry over Beth’s health.

The other welcome distraction was Laurie. He had been as good as his word and came to visit her often - every two or three days, bringing news of Beth and advice from Meg and admonitions from Jo, but most of all bringing his full attention to her. He snuck her sugar biscuits, listened to her practice French and corrected her pronunciation, taught her a few phrases of Italian, and carefully looked over her paintings.

“This is wonderful, Amy; you’re shaping up into a regular Raphael,” he enthused over one of her landscapes. “Or, I should say - Raphaella.”

It was a little intoxicating, to have Laurie to herself - she wondered if this is how Jo felt, always gallivanting around with him. He sometimes even succeeded in charming Aunt March! Not always, and Aunt March always did mutter that he was too Italian for his own good after he’d gone, but Amy caught more than one reluctant smile. 

Still, despite the unlooked-for charms and unexpected comforts of her temporary residence, the day Laurie hurried inside to tell her that Beth was hale again, and Marmee returned, and that Amy could go back to Orchard House, was one of the happiest of her life, topped barely a few days later by their father coming home for Christmas.

The time after was a little strange. Amy felt she’d changed, somehow, while being away from home, or maybe it was simply growing up. Maybe they were all growing up: Meg engaged to Mr. Brooke and about to be married, Jo looking up boarding house notices in New York City when she thought nobody was looking, even Beth playing with her dolls less and less… 

Some part of her - a secret, longing part of her she would never, ever confess to anyone else - also hoped that the changes in her own relationship with Laurie would stick, that even after his promise had been fulfilled, Laurie would continue to dedicate some moments of his days to her. But in that respect, at least, things went back to normal: once all the Marches were back in Orchard House, Laurie spent the lion’s share of his time with Jo, giggling and making up voices and going to plays and arguing loudly and roughhousing like always, and the rest of them got smiles and quick hellos, but no longer any special biscuits, no more cheerful _Raphaellas_ when inspecting a latest drawing. 

It was at Meg’s wedding, then, that Amy’s creeping sense that she had to let her silly fancy go hardened into a certainty. Laurie had been kind, enormously kind, but she was just a girl in his eyes, just Jo’s little sister, and would probably remain that way as long as the comparison stood. Amy and Laurie, they were meant to be nothing but friends, good friends, and she needed to be content with that.

She saw him and Jo dancing, and trading wine they shouldn’t have been drinking. She looked at the ring glistening on his hand, the little bronze thing, and she remembered how Jo had mockingly knelt and presented it to him. She knew it was only a matter of time before the roles were reversed and he would kneel for Jo, and it was time, it really was past time, to let him go. She was going to London, to Rome, and then to Paris, and she would paint wonderful things and meet wonderful people, and the sting of Laurie’s inconstant attention would fade at last.

* * *

Traveling with Aunt March had been more astounding and eye-opening than Amy could have ever imagined. The month and a half they’d spent at sea had been only the beginning: so many new people to meet, different accents to hear, and dresses to see, and specific times and rules for eating and walking in the deck to learn!

Then London, intoxicating with fashions nobody could have dared to wear, back home, and Aunt March ordering a whole new wardrobe for Amy, who had already been stretching Meg and Beth’s hand-me-downs too far (Jo didn’t really leave hand-me-downs because she was such a rapscallion that her dresses all ended up as scraps for Hannah to clean the kitchen with, or for Beth to dress her dolls with). Gardens and parks and tea-time, and the British Museum filled with things that defied the imagination - objects and art Amy had only ever read about, or heard about, now right in front of her eyes. As she had promised years before, Amy called on Fred Vaughn, of course, wearing one of her very best new dresses. The look on his face when he saw her - probably still expecting the wind-swept girl in pigtails he’d met at the beach - was infinitely gratifying, as was his promise that he would do his best to see her when she and Aunt March took up a longer residence in Paris. 

Rome - well, Rome could hardly be put into words. The sheer weight of history: the Colosseum, the way the very ancient existed alongside the newest buildings, the musical sound of the language, the way she could see something of Laurie in certain men’s eyes, in the way they moved… but above all things, Rome was art that took her breath away. She could hardly believe the sculptures she saw, the paintings, the ornate churches, the very colors of the city. She remembered standing on top of one of the old couches at Orchard House, confidently saying she wanted to be the best painter in the world, and felt overwhelmed. 

By the time they made it to Paris, settled in the hotel Aunt March had chosen, and Amy began taking lessons with other young men and women, she didn’t just feel overwhelmed, but daunted. It wasn’t that she loved art any less, or that she didn’t enjoy spending hours and hours getting lost in the way the light hit a certain tree, or the fold of a dress, but around her, revolutionary things were being painted: artists who didn’t just paint how the light hit the tree, but the light itself, who took a scene and created an impression of it so beautiful and so magical she could hardly believe they’d been working from the same view… And Amy, Amy could only manage to imitate reality, not recreate it and make it her own.

“Oh, don’t look so disheartened,” Aunt March admonished her. “Your paintings are lovely - they will be a good addition to any house anywhere. The most important thing to focus on here, Amy March, is the fact that Fred Vaughn has called on you five times these past two weeks, already. Remember your task!”

“I know, Aunt March,” Amy replied, forcing herself not to be cross, not to snap in irritation like she would have when she was a little girl, because she knew her aunt meant well, and she knew that she was right, besides. Being a grand _artiste_ of insufficient talent wouldn’t put food on the table at Orchard House, or get Beth a better doctor. “I promise I remember it.”

And remember it she did: she went to the salons and balls she had to attend, arranged her hair in the most careful way she could, made sure her dresses were starched and beautiful and as fashionable as they could be, and made herself as perfect a model of a wife as she could every time Fred looked her way. A letter to Laurie went unanswered - Marmee had written that he was in Europe, maybe in Paris - and Amy forced herself not to write any more.

She was content with her lot, if maybe feeling a little resigned, and would have probably remained so all the way to an engagement to Fred, until she caught sight of the lanky, oddly graceful figure she would have known anywhere.

“Stop the carriage! Laurie! Laurie!”

Amy leapt out of the carriage over Aunt March’s protests and ran toward Laurie - because it _was_ Laurie, of course it was, truly him in the flesh and not a wish or a dream - and leapt into his arms, feeling a part of her come alive again, the Amy March of Orchard House that she’d had to contain and clean up and limit: the part of her that spoke quickly and loudly, that laughed hard. 

She scoffed at Laurie calling her beautiful, because the last thing she wanted from _him_ was stale, empty flattery, and tried to control her concern when he didn’t contradict her guess that he was flirting and drinking and gambling and generally acting like a ne’er-do-well. Not tell Marmee indeed. It was maybe the fact that she was flustered that made the question slip out before she could stop it.

“Are you chasing some young girl across Europe?”

Laurie’s easy smile dropped, then, and Amy saw him swallow, pause. He was still hurt, then.

“No,” he replied, starkly. 

Amy wanted to take one of his hands in hers, maybe, to hug him again, but in the end she could only offer a sincere condolence. “I - I couldn’t believe Jo turned you down. I’m so sorry.” 

She’d been so confused, when she’d read Marmee’s letter, unable to understand Jo’s choice. It was true she and Laurie fought often, and scolded each other constantly, but they were like twin hearts that beat in time, something between them that even Amy at her youngest had been able to see, as much as it had wounded her. But then, if she understood Jo’s choices - from her hair to her rejection of Laurie and everything in between - they would probably not have spent most of their childhoods at odds.

“Don’t be, Amy,” Laurie finally said, something solemn in his eyes. “I’m not.”

It was enough that the same old longing part of her she’d tried so hard to leave behind in Concord rose up again - could he mean it? Could he truly be alright with Jo turning him down? Could Amy…? - and she invited him to the New Year’s party, called out to him to wear his best silks, as if they were in the Pickwick Club again and getting ready for dress-up, ignored the silent reproof coming in waves from Aunt March beside her. 

She turned to watch him leave, had to turn, and the sight of his slightly hunched shoulders, his long, red scarf trailing behind him, it pierced something inside her heart, a gladness that hurt, almost: Laurie, in her orbit again. Laurie, walking away from her, like he always did. 

It was a harbinger of the night to come, unfortunately: the mortification of dressing with utmost care, of ensuring every strand of her hair was in place, and then waiting for an hour in the hotel lobby, finally forced to ask the concierge to arrange for a carriage because of course she’d told Fred she wouldn’t need his. And the disappointment she felt, seeing him drunk and dissolute and utterly careless, all his good qualities hidden and drowned in champagne, the hurt over his mockery, knowing how carefully and seriously he’d listened when she was younger and told him how much she wanted to be good, to live up to her father’s request that all his daughters be dutiful and brave and kind.

“I’ll be good for you, Saint Amy, I’ll be good!”

Amy tore her hand from his, and her disappointment soured into sharp, bitter anger. “Aren’t you ashamed of a hand like that?”

“No I’m not,” Laurie replied, almost sneering.

“Looks like it hasn’t done a day of work in its life. And that ring is ridiculous,” Amy said, aiming to hurt him back. 

It was enough, for a moment, to give him pause, to take away the insouciant, sneering bon vivant and bring back the kind, awkward boy she could catch a glimpse of underneath it all.

“Jo gave me this ring,” he said, something strangled in his voice.

Amy took a deep breath, forced herself to shove her anger and hurt down. “I feel sorry for you, I really do. I just wish you’d bear it better.”

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, Amy,” Laurie replied, his sneering tone back. “You’ll feel the same way one day.”

And, oh, to hear him say that. _Him_. As if he knew, as if he understood how many times since the first time she’d seen him Amy had loved and longed and been crushed time and time again, because he wasn’t meant to be hers. To dare tell _her_.

“No - I’d be respected if I couldn’t be loved,” she finally said, because that was what Aunt March and these months away from home had taught her, if nothing else.

The scene he caused afterwards - embarrassing her outright, spilling his drink, walking out - it just made Amy understand. No matter what he’d said, he was still wounded over Jo’s rejection, and as Marmee had always told her: hurt things hurt things. She needed to remember her old resolution, that she and Laurie were meant to be nothing but good friends, and she needed to focus on her task. 

With a deep breath, she shook out her dress, and returned to Fred’s side.

Weeks later, after Laurie upended her resolve with a half-meant plea not to marry Fred and, worse, after Amy had indeed rejected the certainty and comfort that being Mrs. Vaughn promised only to find Laurie gone off to London, she looked back at that day and wished she’d never noticed Laurie walking past her carriage.

* * *

Laurie appeared next to her suddenly, silent. Like a hero from a book, like he’d appeared so many times before when Amy had been in distress: but this time it wasn’t an injured hand, or a scary stay away from home. This time it was Beth, dear Beth, and it couldn’t be fixed at all. Still, Amy felt like she could take a breath, now, the way she hadn’t been able to since she’d received the letter because Aunt March was so ill, and Amy felt so lost. Knowing he understood like nobody else near her how much this hurt, knowing he was hurting too because he’d loved Beth like they all had - it made her feel less alone in her pain.

“I couldn’t let you travel alone, with Aunt March being so sick,” Laurie said quietly into her hair. “Even if you despise me.”

“I don’t despise you, Laurie.” She took a deep breath, felt Laurie’s arms tighten around her, let herself breathe in his woodsy, long-loved scent. “Beth was the best of us.” And she couldn’t have him so near, suddenly, because it was like salt on a wound, like hurt over hurt, so she pulled herself away.

The air was tense, for a moment, heavy with all they’d said last time they’d seen each other, and Amy forced herself to clear it in whichever way she could. She didn’t want this hanging over them during what would already be a difficult journey. 

“I’m not marrying Fred,” she said, simply, the one thing she could find to say amidst everything.

“I heard about that,” Laurie replied, voice neutral.

“And you are under no obligation to say anything, or do anything,” Amy continued, turning to face him, because she needed to say this properly, so he would understand. Still, she couldn’t quite meet his eyes, because she knew he’d see too much - he’d see how much his half-confession had unbalanced her, enough that she’d abandoned the plans she’d made years ago, in Aunt March’s house, had rejected a decision about herself and her future she’d thought was set in stone. “I just didn’t love him as I should. So we don’t need to talk about it. We don’t need to say anything-”

And he kissed her before she could continue, kissed her with imperceptibly shaking hands coming up to clutch her face, kissed her the very way Amy had dreamed of for so long, but more, deeper, _real_. He kissed her like Amy hadn’t known a person could be kissed.

They parted after a moment and Amy opened her mouth, closed it. She was robbed of words, of thought; she was all trembling sensation.

“Amy, I need you to understand - I need you to hear this, please,” Laurie said, breaking the silence after a moment, staring hard with wide, hazel-green eyes glistening with desperation and joy and fear, taking both of Amy’s hands in his and clutching them near to his chest. “You’re not second best; I’m not settling for you because I cannot have Jo. How I feel for you, it’s a love I hardly knew existed, a love I didn’t understand until I was in it, deep in it, and hardly able to move or eat or speak but with the thought of seeing you again,” he continued, words coming fast, like he was scared if he didn’t say everything right this second Amy would vanish. 

“It’s not that I don’t love Jo, Amy, but I understand now that I loved her as a sister to my heart, not as a wife, and she was - as ever - far wiser than me in seeing it first, and turning me down,” Laurie explained. “And I held on to the hurt because I felt like I should, because it did wound my pride and I felt it was the thing to do, to carry my allegedly broken heart around and drink and moan… but what I felt when you left me after that day in the park, angry at me, almost certainly walking away from me and into Fred’s arms… it hurt so much I couldn’t even think to drink or moan it away. All I could do was go to London and try to make myself into the kind of man you would never look at with contempt again.”

Laurie paused, then, and brought one of his hands up to Amy’s cheek, again, ran his thumb gently across in a way that made Amy shiver with the tenderness of it. 

“I love you, _Raphaella_. I’ve loved you many years as a friend, held you close to my heart as I do all your family, but I love you now as the person that I wish to spend the rest of my life with - I love you as my wife, if you’ll have the poor excuse of a gallant that I am.”

And Amy - in the face of his disarming honesty, in the face of his ever-distracting beauty, in the face of him putting into words all that had passed unspoken between them for weeks in Paris - she could only find one way to answer. 

“I’ll have you, Laurie. I’ll have you.”

* * *

“I’ve always known I should marry rich - why should I be ashamed of that?” Amy said, eyebrows raised, not taking the provocation Laurie had laid at her feet.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you love him,” he replied, finally, teetering on the edge of the rickety chair he’d thrown himself into. 

“Well, I believe we have some power over who we love; it isn’t something that just happens to a person,” Amy said, her voice infuriatingly calm, her gaze clear-eyed and quizzical, self-possessed in a way Laurie was still unused to, because out of the corner of his eye he still sometimes saw the impish little girl who had boldly given him her name while wearing a nightgown.

“I think the poets might disagree,” he said, hoping to catch her out, hoping to needle her into becoming someone he still easily understood, even as some part of him realized that maybe he hadn’t ever really understood her as he thought he had.

“Well, I’m not a poet. I’m just a woman,” Amy replied, cleaning her hands and putting away her art supplies as she continued to outline her own reality in stark, clear terms, the reality of so many more women. “So don’t sit there and tell me that marriage isn’t an economic proposition, because it is. It may not be for you, but it most certainly is for me.”

Before Laurie could think of any way to reply, however, the unwelcome sound of a carriage intruded on their strangely charged tableau, and Laurie, who had become so used to being the center of attention for various March women - if not always the attention he wanted - felt bereft as the sharp focus of Amy’s interest seemed to leave him entirely. 

“Oh, that’s Fred - can you unbutton me?” she asked, unselfconsciously turning, presenting the fragile nape of her neck to him.

Laurie untied the laces of her painting apron carefully, wishing suddenly that the laces would never run out, that they could stay forever in this strange, liminal space, arguing about art and womanhood and genius. But the untying came to an end: she turned away from him and reached for her cape, and Laurie heard it as an echo, _I’m just a woman_. Because she _was_ a woman, no longer little, no longer Jo’s sister, but wholly her own person, and just as Laurie was beginning to realize it, was getting ready to make a clumsy attempt to reach out and try to hold her, she was out of the reach of his hands as easily as the laces of her apron escaped his fingers.

“How do I look, do I look alright?”

“You look beautiful,” Laurie answered. Allowed her beauty - which her girlish face had promised, but which had now come into full bloom, along with her self-confidence and self-possession - to pierce him. “You _are_ beautiful.”

She left him, then, turning to greet Fred Vaughn with a smile, and left Laurie behind, a riot of emotions inside him he could hardly begin to understand. 

What came after were charmed days, charmed weeks: trying to steal lunches and dinners and promenades with Amy away from Fred and other admirers of the youngest March sister, of which there were many. Walking alongside the Seine, attending concerts, waiting patiently by her side as she sketched, and talking, talking, talking. She was so clever and so kind, in an entirely different way than Jo or Meg or Beth- clever about people and what they wanted and what they meant, clear-eyed about her own self, about the world, and her place in it. She was charming, well-spoken, fascinating, but not _nice_ , exactly. Simply entirely herself, without ever having that make others feel small or less. 

Laurie still saw little glimpses and flashes of the exuberant, sometimes mischievous girl she’d been, because she let her guard down with him, still ran on ahead or clapped her hands when something she saw was particularly beautiful, spoke so fast her words ran ahead of her… she never did that with anyone else, not Fred or any of the beaus or _madames_ that sought to include her in their circle. Laurie cherished each rambunctious laugh, each moment of complicity, and tried to figure out some way to keep her, some way to tell her that he, too, was in the running for her hand, that he wasn’t just a makeshift big brother chaperoning her until her hand was settled on someone else.

Of course, when he finally did say it, it came out all wrong.

“Don’t marry him.”

“What?”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeated, walking towards her.

“Why?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Why? You know why,”” Laurie said, because she had to know, didn’t she? She had to feel it, every day they spent together.

“No… no…” Amy said, backing away, shaking her head. Her eyes were angry, and wide, and she was losing her composure in a way Laurie hadn’t ever seen before.

“Yes,” Laurie confirmed. He wanted to make her see that if she married Fred now, the fragile thing they were building together - this between them that Laurie was only just beginning to recognize, that he still hadn’t allowed himself to put a name to - it would cease to be before they even tried, but he was unable to find the proper words to explain.

“No, Laurie, no. You’re being mean.”

“Why?”

“Stop it, stop it,” she said, putting out a shaking hand to halt his approach, and her eyes were so wounded that Laurie obeyed immediately. “I have been second to Jo my whole life. In everything. And I will not be the person that you settle for just because you cannot have her. I won’t - I won’t do it. I won’t. Not when I’ve spent my entire life loving you.” 

She left, then, her sketches tossed aside in the grass, her parting more painful than any before, the confirmation that she loved him not enough to soothe the hurt of her leaving, because Laurie knew, he knew, she was leaving for good. For Fred.

Laurie wanted to go back in time and warn himself, somehow, not to bring Fred to the beach, the first seemingly innocent step in a game Laurie was losing and had been foolish enough to not understand he wanted to play. But would he have understood, the him of the past? No, of course not. Jo was all he could truly see, then; she was the light in an attic window in a dark night he stared at for so long he was blinded to everything and everyone else, always measuring everyone - even himself - through her eyes. Thinking that kinship and understanding had to lead to marriage, because how could it not -- didn’t men and women always end up married? This despite the fact that Jo had always been outside of the norm, had never given him anything but honest, sisterly affection, had never hinted at romance.

And now, having experienced this time with this particular version of Amy - this Amy who had taken all that was wonderful about herself as a girl and nurtured it, this Amy who know exactly who she was, and who _Laurie_ was, or could be. The way being near her made him feel more at peace than he had ever felt before, understood and seen and gently encouraged to be his best self, the way he woke up thinking of her eyes and went to sleep trying to recall the exact and various shades of her hair - now he understood what being truly in love was. And what it was to feel true heartbreak.

All he could do, after, was to go to London and try to make himself into the sort of man Amy believed he could be, because even if he couldn’t have her, he wanted to make her proud. London was gray and bleak, a perfect fit for his mood, and Laurie sought to work away his grief, because he understood immediately that drink and game and other women wouldn’t succeed, here -- that this was deeper, that maybe it wouldn’t ever heal. And then he heard that she’d rejected Fred Vaughn, and spent a sleepless night arguing with himself to stop from purchasing a ticket on the next boat across the Channel; heard about Beth, and bought one straight away, propriety be damned.

When he saw her, dressed all in black, somber and fragile but still entirely self-possessed, still offering to let him in, despite it all, he couldn't stop himself. He kissed her, kissed her as he’d been longing to maybe from the moment she’d called out to him on the promenade and ran into his arms, and he asked her to be his wife, entirely his.

On the way back to Concord, crossing the sea, they stood watching the sunset one day, Amy fitting under his arm as if she’d been made for him, or, perhaps more accurately, as if Laurie had been made for _her_ but had had to earn it, first.

“When did you know, Laurie? That you loved me?”

Laurie looked down at her well-loved face, the features he’d traced over and over again in his mind’s eye, the upturned nose, the blue eyes, the sharp, beautiful mouth. 

“Oh, Raphaella… I think I was in it before I understood. But if I had to pick a moment, it was probably when you ordered me to untie your apron,” Laurie replied. “I think a part of me knew, then, that I would trade everything I was so insistent in doing - all the drinking and the parties and the carousing I felt were my due - if only I could spend the rest of my time in your art room, being commanded by you.”

Amy smiled, then, a smile of hers that Laurie had seen directed at him before without quite understanding it - when he’d healed her hand, and had first seen her light up at the art in his library; when he’d consoled her after she was taken to her aunt when Beth was ill - and this time, he smiled back, at last, after so many years, entirely in tune with her.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _willow_ by Taylor Swift, which showed up at exactly the right time for this story.


End file.
